CROSSFIRE (3 page)

Just like before.

Back away, she told herself. Now. His touch was too demanding, the contact between their bodies too intimate. She thought of putting her palms to his chest and pushing, demanding he let her go, but the truth burned. Even if he hadn't wedged her between his body and the brick wall, her injured ankle made outrunning him impossible. Hawk
Monroe
was a man of instinct and impulse. He'd be on her before she took two steps.

She didn't want him on her ever, ever again.

He pulled back and lifted his hand. "How do you explain this?"

In a faraway corner of her mind, the mix of blood and rainwater on his fingers registered, but it was the look in his eyes that stole her breath. They were hot and burning as always, but not with betrayal like the last time she'd seen him. If she didn't know better, she would have sworn they blazed with concern. Mortality. A fear that reached down deep and twisted hard.

"Not mine," she whispered. "Not my blood."

The breath sawed in and out of him. "Not yours?"

"No," she said. "Not mine. I'm fine."

He looked from her eyes to his upturned hand, washed clean by the steady downpour. "Not yours," he muttered, as though he didn't quite understand.

Elizabeth
wanted to feel relief that he'd finally quit running his hands over her body, but he was standing so still. Too still. Unnaturally still for a man like Hawk Monroe, who wasn't still even when he slept. He tossed and turned, thrashed, transforming a bed into a war zone. Now he didn't move, just kept staring at his hand, as though blood might suddenly reappear.

She knew better than to touch him, but raised a hand to his anyway. "Wesley?"

That was her mistake. Touching him. Just like that night two years before. She tried to withdraw, to undo the damage, but he lifted his eyes to hers and she flat-out forgot to breathe.

"
Elizabeth
," he muttered, and before she could pull away, before her heart could so much as beat, his mouth was on hers, and nothing else mattered.

Chapter 2

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H
awk
Monroe
prided himself on staying cool under fire. He didn't cling to plans if they didn't work. He didn't hesitate to improvise. Those were his rules, rules that kept him alive.

Kissing Elizabeth Carrington violated every rule in his book.

But God help him, with the world exploding around him and Elizabeth Carrington staring up at him through those tilted green eyes, he flat didn't care. There was nothing rational or cautious inside him, just hot, jagged edges and a burning need. He pulled her to him, roughly almost, knowing he could never get her close enough.

Elizabeth
.
Cool, untouchable
Elizabeth
.

Nothing had prepared him for the sight of her,
the feel,
even across a crowded auditorium. Not memory. Not dreams. She'd been just as heart-jarringly beautiful as ever, just as elegant and regal and refined. He'd looked at her standing behind the podium, wearing a sexy-as-sin little black dress with the kind of square neckline that drove a man wild, and he'd had no choice but to remember what it had been like between them, the heat and the intensity, the passion she denied.

He'd been making his way toward the stage when the auditorium went dark. He'd started to run immediately, instinctively. Toward her.
Elizabeth
.

The woman he'd sworn to give his life for.

Who'd tossed him out like month-old leftovers.

Still, his body tightened at the realization of how close he'd come to losing her. He'd seen that man's hands on her. He'd heard her cry out. He'd wanted to kill.

Not now. Now he wanted only to absorb, to feel every inch of her. He lifted a hand to her face, found her skin soft and cool, damp from the rain, flawless like he remembered. He wanted to spear his fingers into her hair, but she had it twisted off her face in one of those fancy styles that emphasized her killer cheekbones and those provocative eyes that incinerated common sense.

Need twisted through him, hot and dark, punishing, to assure himself she was safe and unharmed, that she was in his arms and not just his dreams. The ones that had him jerking awake in the middle of the night, tangled in the sheets and vowing to never let her look down her perfect nose at him again.

Cradling her like that, with his palm cupping her jaw and his fingers spread wide, he kissed her hard, he kissed her deep. He kissed her the way he kissed her in his dreams, his memory.

And she was kissing him back.

Sweet Mary, she tasted of red wine and fear, temptation and destruction all rolled into one impossible package. The way she had her hands curled around the lapels of his jacket, it was as though she sought to keep him from backing away. Christ. There was no way he could have torn away, not when she kissed him as she had that night so long ago, when boundaries had shattered and the world had narrowed to only the two of them.

A hard sound broke from his throat as he pulled her closer, went deeper. He held her against him, ran his hands along her back. She was alive. She hadn't been hurt. He'd gotten to her in time.

Dragging his mouth from hers, he skimmed along her jawbone. One of his hands drifted to her shoulders, down to her lower back, where he pressed her against him. His body was hot and hard and on fire, and—

The hands clutching his sport coat began to push instead.

"Don't," she said, turning her face from his. "Stop."

Hawk went very still. Her brittle words doused the fire as effectively as the cold rain in which they stood. He pulled back to look at her, see her, found her eyes huge and dark and as icy as the night around them. No emotion glimmered there, not one trace of the seven hours when the rest of the world hadn't mattered, none of the heat or longing that pulsed through him. He found only the cool indifference he'd seen countless nights when he lay twisted in the sheets of his empty bed.

And something inside him snapped.

"Which is it, Ellie?" He worked hard to bring himself under control, but the question ripped out anyway. "Don't?" he asked, biting out the word like a command. "Stop?" Briefly he hesitated. "Or don't stop?"

Her eyes flashed, reproach replacing the moment of apathy.

He held her angry gaze, enjoying even the smallest victory. For a minute there, a stupid, impulsive minute, he'd forgotten. He hadn't been thinking about the way she'd rolled over in bed and looked at him with horror in her eyes. He hadn't been thinking about the way she'd had him removed from her parents' estate. He'd forgotten the cold look on her face, the cutting words.

He'd only known
Elizabeth
was safe and in his arms.

Swearing softly, he took his hands from her body and stepped back. No way was he going to let her turn him into the bad guy.

Wide-eyed, she lifted a hand to her mouth, pressing fingers to full lips colored not by cosmetics, hurt the relentlessness of their kiss.

"What are your
doing?"
she asked with a breathlessness he knew she would hate.

"Your were pale." He spoke with exaggerated simplicity, not about to tell her the thought of her being hurt had pushed him to the edge. He would never give her that leverage over him ever, ever again. "I wanted to put some color back into your cheeks."

She lifted her chin, just as she always did when she was determined to pull herself under control. "A simple pinch would have been fine."

But nowhere near as satisfying. Retrieving his gun, Hawk scanned the rain-dampened alley a block from the hotel. Many of the sirens had quit blaring, indicating the chaos was settling. Soon
Elizabeth
's absence would be noted.

"Nothing is ever simple with you," he said, returning his attention to her. She had this preconceived notion of how life should be and couldn't accept that just because a plan was made didn't mean it had to be followed. He'd tried to show her,
had
shown her. God, how he'd shown her.

In return she'd accepted another man's proposal.

"What do you want me to say?" he added, lowering the pitch of his voice. "That I wanted to kiss you? To know if you tasted like the red wine you had with dinner?"

Her eyes darkened, but other than that, she denied him a reaction. "What are you doing here?"

Walking back into a colossal mistake. "Saving your life, it looks like."

She wrapped her arms around her rib cage, drawing his attention to the black pearls showcased by the square neckline of her little wet dress and the way she'd started to shake.

"Why?" she asked. "What's going on?"

He slipped out of his sport coat and draped it around her shoulders. "Here," he almost growled. "You shouldn't be running around half-dressed when it's freezing outside."

She didn't throw the jacket to the ground and stomp on it the way he'd expected, but pulled the tweed tightly around her. "Answer my question, Wesley. Why are you here?"

The Dumpsters shielded them from view, but soon the authorities would come looking. Or worse. He needed her cooperation, and he needed it now.

"Your father sent me. Jorak Zhukov broke out of prison."

What little color he'd kissed into her face drained away. After her sister's ordeal, he figured just the name Zhukov would strike fear into any of the Carringtons.

"Why
you?"
she asked, and he heard what she didn't say. Why not Aaron or Jagger or
anyone
other than him?

"Your father knows I'm the best." He held her gaze, refused to let her see one trace of the cold fear still slicing him up inside. "So do you."

The hair pulled from her face made it impossible to miss the way her eyes flared, the flicker of memory, but she quickly hid the reaction and looked toward the Dumpsters.

Hawk didn't know whether to laugh out loud or slam his fist into the cold brick wall.

Nothing had changed. He knew they had no future, he didn't
want
a future, but the denial stung all the same. Here she was as cool and untouchable as always, while something deep inside him boiled. He caged in his response to her, unwilling to let her think she still had that power over him. Because she didn't. She never had. That was only adrenaline, the thrill of the chase.

"Where did the blood come from?" she asked, looking back at him. "Did you shoot someone?"

"With you in the line of fire?" The thought sickened him. "Sweet God, Elizabeth, what kind of man do you think I am?"

She had the good grace to wince. "Then where did the blood come from?"

Her failure to answer his question didn't go unnoticed. He knew what kind of man she thought he was. She'd made that bulletproof clear.

The rain picked up, icy pellets slanting down on them both.

And despite his jacket,
Elizabeth
still shook. A compassionate man would have pulled her into his arms, let the heat of his body warm her. Burt Hawk wasn't interested in another Elizabeth Carrington rejection, no matter how badly he hated seeing her tremble. The urge to hold her was just instinct, he told himself. Basic human kindness. Nothing more.

"My guess is the fall," he said. "Zhukov's man must have cut himself, got his blood on you." The bastard had taken Hawk down, as well, lifting a leg in the darkness to send Hawk to his hands and knees. The impact had jarred him, but nowhere near as much as the sound of Elizabeth's scream.

"Zhukov," she muttered, lifting her eyes to his. "Dear God, where's Miranda?"

He stepped from the shield of the dumpsters and verified the coast was still clear. "Sandro has her. They're safe."

"Thank God," she breathed.

Time was up. If the authorities found them, there'd be a fuss, questions, officials. There'd be delays. Cameras. Someone might try to separate them.

Elizabeth, the woman who looked at him and saw her worst nightmare, wouldn't stop them.

He swung toward her. "Can you run?"

She looked at her mined strappy sandals, then back at him. "Run?"

"I need to get you out of here, and either we run or I carry you."

She snapped off the heel of her other sandal. "I can run."

He bit back a laugh. She was so predictable. "Good girl. My car is just around the corner." Ready to go, he reached for her, but as he'd predicted, she stepped away from his touch.

He came damn close to growling.

"Quit fighting me, Ellie," he said as levelly as he could. "You have to let me do my job."

"Is that what you're calling it these days?"

Impatience snapped through him. "I call it saving your life," he said, then didn't give her a chance to protest further, just put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her close to shield her from the rain and took off running.

* * *

"It's not the Ritz, sweetness, but it'll have to do."

Elizabeth
stepped into the small hotel room and heard Hawk close the door behind her. She drew a deep breath, but the stale air did nothing to soothe her nerves. Jorak Zhukov was out of prison. He'd threatened the Carringtons. Shots had been fired.